‘It’s no worth it, is it, son?’

‘Naw, Tam. It isnae, mate.’

‘Boays, the McIntires ir wan hing, they’ve always ran aboot this scheme. His da wis a fuckin wide boy back in the day anaw. They’re aw gangsters, fuck, but this Jamesy Maynard is a different breed. He’s a real cunt, mate. Don’t fuckin mess wae him, Broonie. He dis stuff wae big families in the toon n aw that n jumps aboot wae proper heavies. Azzy, you stay back anaw, son.’

A raise ma eyebrows behind a fag. It’s true. Yi don’t want any these cunts tae even know yir name. The closer yir proximity tae them, the more chance yi git noticed n sucked intae their murky world.

‘Aye he’s a dodgy bastard. A know that, Tam.’

‘Wit yi gonnae dae aboot this dough then, Broonie?’

‘A’ll needty sell ma motor, won’t A?’

‘Well there’s nae point huvin an Audi n nae legs tae work the fuckin pedals!’

Tam tries tae smile at Broonie n tell him he’s jokin but Broonie’s heed falls intae his chest. The threat ae violence is suhin we huv aw experienced n though yi dae eventually adjust n become desensitised tae it, it never feels good. It’s worse than the actual violence itself – which is usually a quick series ae flashpoints that yi, usually, scrape through. The no knowin is more brutal, dark imaginings playin oot a hundred different scenarios in yir heed castin yirsel as both hero n tragic figure. You’d conjure homicidal fantasies aboot stabbin cunts in self-defence n how they would git yi. It’s unhealthy n it kin drive yi mad.

‘Chin up, mate. A’ll help yi git rid ae that fuckin motor. It’s an A3, son … many miles?’

‘Seventy thousand, n it’s diesel.’

‘Fuck sake. You’ll git aboot six grand fur that. Pay that fuckin oompa loompa aff n keep the rest. Square Marcus up fur yir shite anaw.’

‘It’s no that easy, Tam.’

‘Aye it is. You’re only wan runner that’s caused a bit ae hassle. Turn up wae yir debt n say sorry n you’ll git a kickin n nae more. Let’s face it, yi deserve it fur being such a stupit wee cunt!’

This time Broonie dis smile. Tam kin always see the bigger picture n he hus a pure talent fur makin the big things seem trivial and makin yi feel better when aw hope is lost. Things ir always worse in yir ain heed.

‘How’s Michelle, Tam?’

‘She’s dain fine, son. No long tae go noo. She’s massive!’

‘Sorry fur draggin yi intae this pish, Tam. A know you’ve git yir wee wan comin n that.’

‘Broonie, it’s nae hassle, son. A wish A hud the money tae gee yi maself cos A fuckin wid. A’ve always hated aw they cunts. They’ve aw hud ma wee brur baw deep fur years. He’s that fuckin daft he thinks he’s pals wae them aw. He’s just that much ae a pussy that he’s nae use tae them. That’s how wee cunts like you git sucked in, Broonie.’